


Day 3 - Winter Wonderland

by ConsultingPurplePants



Series: 25 Days of Fic-Mas (originally posted to tumblr) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Snowball Fight, fluff explosion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5344346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have a snowball fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 3 - Winter Wonderland

**Author's Note:**

> And here's day 3! Ok. That's it for today, the rest will come on a normal timeline :)

Sherlock rarely sleeps. It’s a useless waste of time during which he could have been reorganizing his mind palace, completing his experiments, solving more cases... Even John must realize that the kitchen would be less of a disaster if he was allowed to actually complete his experiments, rather than have them explode at 4am because he accidentally fell asleep on the sofa. He only willingly sleeps when John forces him to, although he does have to (grudgingly) admit that it’s not that bad, sleeping, if he does it with a mostly-naked John holding him close and stroking his hair.

This means that Sherlock is incredibly surprised (surprised!?) when he is gently shaken awake around 5 o’clock in the morning. He snuffles loudly to show his displeasure, and in reply a warm hand softly strokes his cheekbone and someone whispers, “Shhhh... It’s ok.... Get dressed,” before it pulls away. He opens his eyes, slightly disoriented, and immediately takes his surroundings in. He and John are in his childhood bedroom at his parents’ house, having decided to finally spend a proper Christmas here. It’s been two years since the Christmas-they-do-not-speak-of-lest-John-get-uncomfortable-and-quiet-all-day, and John (who is still the only person capable of surprising him) had suggested they spend it here, do it properly this time.

He must have been thinking for too long, because John’s sleep-softened smile suddenly appears, and his hair gets gently pushed out of his face.

“Sherlock, put this on. I want you to see something.”

And now that he blinks and wakes himself up properly (this is why he doesn’t sleep, the transport takes forever to reboot), he sees that John is wearing some sort of ridiculous puffy coat, with ridiculous puffy pants and... mittens? A hat with a sort of fluff-ball on the top of it? What is... He sits up and looks down the bed, to finally see that there is another ridiculous puffy outfit at the foot of it, and it’s definitely the right size for a six-foot consulting detective. He frowns at John.

“No. That is... No. I can’t even come up with words to describe this outfit. No. You see? Congratulations, you’ve rendered me speechless.” He waves his hands aggressively at the puffy things, then grabs the duvet and starts to pull it over his head. John’s hand stops him, as does that (also ridiculous) puppy-dog expression.

“Sherlock... Please? For me?”

And all of Sherlock’s defenses crumble. He starts to pull on the coat and pants even before he realizes what he’s doing. How does this happen every time? This isn’t supposed to happen. It’s been nearly two years, he should be immune by now!

Before long, he’s just as ridiculous and puffy as John, and John leads him outside by the hand. Into... his parents’ very large grounds (?), which are currently covered in snow. Sherlock is just starting to think that this silence is rather suspicious when he receives confirmation that it is. This confirmation comes in the form of a huge glob of snow smashing him in the back of the head, and immediately dripping down his neck into his coat. He hisses, his whole body contracting, then whips around to face John, who is giggling madly behind him.

“John! What are you --”

He never gets the rest of his protest out, because he nearly swallows a mouthful of the snow that has now struck him in the chest. He used to do this with Mycroft, but hasn’t since he was eight years old and Mycroft told him he was too old for it. John apparently sees things differently, as he is much more than eight years old now. He does remember how to do this, though. He growls at John, leans down to pick up his own (perfectly round) snowball and lobs it at the back of John’s head. It explodes in a shower of snow that goes down the back of John’s coat, and John shouts as his back starts to freeze. Sherlock grins, satisfied, then bends down to make a new one before John gathers his wits enough to get his revenge.

They continue their war, laughing, shouting, until the sun starts to peek over the top of the clouds, its orange rays warming Sherlock’s face when he looks up. He hasn’t laughed like this in a long time, and of course it would be John that would make him laugh like this again. It’s always John, and Sherlock loves him more than he can bear.

He’s just putting together his (probably hundredth) snowball when he hears a rustle of snow behind him, and he turns as fast as he possibly can, hoping to fend off the attack before it comes. It doesn’t, however, and he instead finds himself facing John, in his ridiculous puffy clothes, kneeling in front of him in the snow. Sherlock tilts his head, puzzled.

“John? Why are you on the ground?”

And that’s when he sees the small box in John’s hands. All the thoughts (is that even possible?) go flying from Sherlock’s head as he gapes at John.

“Sherlock. I wanted to come here for Christmas because I wanted to do this somewhere special. Somewhere... meaningful. Because I wanted you to know that the last time we were here --”

Sherlock gasps at the (brief) mention of the Christmas-they-do-not-speak-of-lest-John-get-uncomfortable-and-quiet-all-day, but John cuts him off before he can continue his thought.

“The last time we were here, Sherlock, I already felt this way. I had felt this way for a long time, Mary or no. I have loved you for so long, so long, that I’ve basically forgotten what it feels like not to. So... will you marry me?”

Sherlock is still gaping at John, but now his legs seem to have given out, because he’s kneeling in front of him and now their faces are smashed together, and it’s cold and warm at the same time, and his transport (damn it, the transport!) is moving much faster than his brain (how is this happening!?) when all he is trying to say is --

“Yes!” He finally manages to gasp out, panting, and John crushes him to himself, and holds him as the sun rises and Sherlock decides he doesn’t hate the ridiculous puffy outfits that much if it means he can have this.


End file.
